


nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody (ooh) nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody no—

by faorism



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Academia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, COVID-19, Character Study, Disability, Established Relationship, Financial Issues, Gen, Housing Insecurity, Hurt/Comfort, Hypervigilance, Light BDSM, M/M, New York City, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Realism, Touch-Starved, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:35:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23449387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faorism/pseuds/faorism
Summary: Like most things now, it's more a matter of notif, butwhen. (Or: five times Jesse kept himself together and one time he really, really didn't.)
Relationships: Ana Amari/Reinhardt Wilhelm, Genji Shimada/Tekhartha Zenyatta, Jesse McCree & Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 17
Kudos: 73
Collections: Lock Down Fest





	nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody (ooh) nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody no—

**Author's Note:**

> written for [lock down fest (2020)](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Quarantine_Fest). title is blatantly stolen from mitski's [nobody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qooWnw5rEcI). thank you [calciseptine](https://calciseptine.tumblr.com/) and [eloquentdreams](https://eloquentdreams.tumblr.com/) for the cheerleading. in addition to what's in the header, additional tags for this fic include brief mentions of the following: 9/11, alcoholism, police brutality, former incarceration, vomit, hypothetical subdrop, and a prevailing feeling of itchy skin.
> 
> jesse&hanzo and ana&reinhardt's tiny apartments have the same layout, except the rooms with the bedrooms are switched. you can see a rough look at what mchanzo's apartment might look like in this [room sketcher pic](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1NyXDm7QjT2msDO1mOxwMnrQpgU2doaOe/view?usp=sharing). granted, due to the limitations of the app, the apartment is still slightly bigger than i imagine them to be, but you should get the idea.
> 
> please note that the sanitizing procedures included in this fic are not meant to be followed as expert advice, and purposely so. as will be said textually, the characters are trying to do their best in a wildly imperfect system, but they like many people right now are kind of in over their heads. this fic is vaguely set slightly ahead of us temporally (late april/early may) so the characters can be familiar with their sanitizing habits. if significant changes happen to any of the policies i mentioned, i will likely return and make small edits to this fic to keep it up to date. 

_nullum._

It's Yuna who answers the door. She lets him in with an easy hello. Jesse kicks off his shoes, drops all of his large nylon laundry bags right next to the door, and walks straight to the bathroom with Yuna close behind, pushing a mop to clean his every step. Behind them, King, Hana, and Casino crowd the bags, each donning their masks and armed with dishwashing gloves and various cleaning products. Seung-Hwa stands at the ready near a dragon's trove of jars, tupperware, rubberbands, and washed-for-the-nth-time ziplocks.

The bathroom door is already open, and Yuna pulls it closed behind him. Jesse doesn't touch the lock.

Like during his last visit, there's a change of clothes folded neatly on a shelf, a fluffy towel on top of that, as well as a large cauldron of a pot near the shower. Obediently, Jesse strips and shoves every piece of clothing into the pot. His cloth mask is last to join the pile, which he carefully doffs as per the instructions from the CDC link Yuna sent him. One of the kids will take care of the washing for him: will boil the clothes in soapy water for the next time he makes a grocery run. They hope it should be enough to sanitize it. At least it's better than doing nothing. 

Jesse steps into the shower. Under the hot spray, he never opens his mouth to avoid any water that's touched his skin from seeping in. 

He carefully washes his hands, his forearms. He goes past the twenty second minimum, scrubbing raw every inch of his skin. Jesse keeps track of where fingers slide against fingers against wrist against nails. Palm curls into palm and rests there a beat too long—clutching (it's the most intimate touch he's had all day). He rinses the suds off, then washes his face, taking care with his mouth, his beard. 

He doesn't feel right. He washes his hands again. Even with frequent lotioning, his hands show wear at the knuckles. He just hopes they don't split and bleed. 

(But they will, he knows. Like most things now, it feels like a matter of not _if_ , but _when_.)

—

_one._

"Thank you so much for the snack run," Hana says. It's more than a snack run: it's all their groceries for the next week, maybe even a week and a half if they push it.

"No problem"—his lips catch on his fresh mask, making it come out as _probleh_ —"kiddo. Not like y'all aren't helping me either." He gestures to the groceries that are now unboxed, washed if needed, sorted, and put into a clean set of bags—minus 4H's share, of course. 

This, Casino waves off. "Dude, this was like a buck fifty pounds of shit you just dragged ten blocks. Ten Gowanus blocks. You're, like, a legend right now." 

"I swear, if that wasn't the grossest exaggeration I ever—" 

"Accept the praise," King says through chewing his specially requested Hot Cheetos as Seung-Hwa tries (and fails) to sneak a handful. 

Casino hums thoughtfully. "Gonna get the ultimate shoutouts on all our streams tonight, Professor McCree."

"I'm not a professor yet." 

King sidesteps Seung-Hwa and sprints around the kitchen and to his room, calling out: "The ultimate shoutout for real, Mister Professor-in-training McCree." Seung-Hwa runs after him, and Casino shrugs and meanders after, never one to be caught out. 

"Guys, be careful with the wires!" Hana calls after her roommates. "Ugh. Boys." Jesse turns his attention back to her just in time to see her pull out her phone. "So. How much?" Jesse's unsurprised she already has Venmo open when she unlocks the screen.

"Fifty." It's far too low an estimate. 

"Jesse…" 

They've had this talk before. Hana thinks that if she gripes at him enough, Jesse will change his mind. As if Jesse isn't perfectly aware the three boys just lost their day jobs. Overnight, Hana and Yuna became the economic heads of their chosen fam of streamers as the only ones already doing it full-time. And then there's the rest of the loved ones of 4H's ragtag team going through their own shit, like Hana's friend Dae-Hyun the mechanic for the MTA working and traveling without PPE… and fuck, how are they gonna pay rent? Thanks to the boys' unemployment checks, they managed all their expenses for March and now April, but it has to be getting rough on them. Even with New York's eviction freeze in effect, rent payment legislature is still up in the air. The building is in talks of a rent strike but there's too many people who are too scared to join in and… so much there's just so much. Everyone has so much baggage. So many unexpected, unpleasant, disastrous updates and—and—god, the world is just falling, isn't it, but maybe it's not and Jesse cannot even tell if they're being too cautious or not cautious enough and and fuck—

The money. Hana. 

"Fifty-five, and I'm not taking a penny more."

"Things are tight but we're not desperate."

"Yuna doesn't agree."

That makes Hana frown deeply, turning toward the bathroom where Yuna has gone off to disinfect every surface. Jesse has offered to just do it himself, but her anxiety has escalated into paranoia since she learned her mom's employer cancelled her nanny assignment without severance; her stress needed an outlet, and she found cleaning. She doesn't trust him to do it just right and maybe she should be concerned. Everyone should be concerned… but especially them. They understand they got people relying on them, and relying on them to do it right. Or—again—as right as they can be in such a wildly imperfect system. 

Jesse can see Hana constructing a very civil response that shows her appreciation for Jesse's generosity, doesn't put down her girlfriend's concerns, and impresses just how much she thinks he should ask for 4H's portion of the bill.

He takes it easy on her. "Hanzo and me are set, especially with Genji and Zenyatta's help. We can spot you this time." Hana starts to object, but Jesse interrupts her with a soft, "It's fine, kid. Really." Jesse slides on his shoes and picks up the nylon bags, signalling what he hopes is the end of his tolerance of the conversation. He very suddenly wants to be away from here. 

She stares at him for a long awkward moment, and whatever she sees in his eyes settles it for her. "Okay, Jesse. Okay." 

Hana opens the door for him, and even walks with him to the elevator. She presses the button, waits with him. He considers asking her if she's still on her SMM kick or if she's got a new game she's playing, but he appreciates the silence. He can always log onto Twitch later and check the DVA_MEKA stream himself if he really wants to know.

The elevator comes. Empty, thankfully. Hana waits until he's in and presses the button for 6 for him.

"We're here for you, you know. If you need to talk," Hana says too kindly, eyes locking with his eyes once again. Her sincerity is too much: it makes Jesse's skin itch.

"Give a big kiss to Yuna for me," he says too lightly, eyes looking away.

He can just hear her sigh as the elevator door closes.

—

_two._

Even through the mask, 6B smells of star anise and ginger when Ana greets him. As he did with 4H, he toes off his sneakers, but he doesn't beeline to the bathroom. Instead, he goes straight for the kitchen, places down his bags, and starts washing his hands at the sink. 

There's a melodic sound rattling deep from within the compact apartment smaller than 4H given that it's not a corner apartment, but identical in layout to Jesse's. The noise probably is coming from the bedroom-turned-craft-room, a room Jesse once knew very well having lived there for fourteen months after he got out of jail. It feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago that he needed out of New Mexico, and Gabe happened to have a friend from his army days with a spare bedroom in New York. Now a decade after that introduction, he may be out of the room but he's found himself not that far away. Four floors and four apartments over, in fact.

Jesse's life finds a way to always loop back into itself. (Spiraling…) 

"Hello to you too," Ana says once she joins him in the kitchen, and unlike Yuna, she does not wield a mop. They've talked about what he does to disinfect after leaving the apartment complex, and she thinks his and Yuna's diligence is more than enough to protect Reinhardt and his failing lungs. Even mentioned once that they might be overdoing it, but she won't exactly discourage them either. Even years after retiring as an EMT, she can remember the firsthand lesson of how even a slight oversight can have catastrophic results: it's what cost her her right eye, after all, during a welfare check gone violently awry. 

When that catastrophe might fall onto her live-in boy toy of fifteen years… well, she, like the rest of them will err on the side of caution.

"Your bags are the left ones." 

"Thank you." The 4H team already put aside what needs to be immediately refrigerated or frozen, so it's easy work for her to take care of the meat, the dairy, the eggs… She doesn't unpack the rest; she'll leave that task to Reinhardt. (It's not too strenuous a task, and he does like to keep busy.) Instead, she joins Jesse at the counter as he finishes up washing his hands.

She stirs something in a pot: the anise and the ginger, but also quartered apples. Cloves. Lemon sliced near wafer thin. Swirls of spices not yet mixed into the water.

Tea, set to boil. Nearly done, judging by its deep brown hue.

As they are waiting, Ana's old cat Bastet winds her way around Jesse's legs in greeting. The soft touch is… really fucking nice actually but also uncomfortable. Too much. Thankfully—realizing he doesn't have snacks for her today—Bastet leaves him, probably to go nap. Jesse doesn't unclench his jaw for another few, long moments. 

Eventually, Ana adds honey to the pot. Stirs quickly. Takes it off the stove and pours the tea into two mugs. There's a lot left, but Ana doesn't offer Jesse any. She ain't the kind to bother with empty niceties—not small talk, nor offerings she already knows Jesse won't take; he won't pull his mask off in this household. 

(Too risky… 

So risky…

Everything he does… everything he _is_ is dangerous…) 

He walks with her through the clutter of her apartment, through books and textiles, knickknacks and furniture and even more books and souvenirs and awards and all the evidence of two complicated journeys that only converged into one later in life. Bastet's scratching post is next to a grandfather clock that looks older than Jesse. A doll Fareeha made for her mother when she was six rests on top of a bookcase against Reinhardt's old firefighter helmet. A crayon drawing from a child from one of their friend's giant brood, is taped up alongside a yellowed Polaroid of Ana's late husband, which hangs beside a copy of Jesse's acceptance letter to Penn, which is tacked up beside a framed newspaper clipping featuring a candid shot of Reinhardt at Ground Zero days after the attacks. In every nook there's a little bowl with coins, and in every cranny there's the kind of everyday ephemera that is as thoughtlessly placed as it is artful. It's the kind of home Jesse desperately hopes he can have one day with Hanzo, when they can settle into a gentler, quieter comfort than they have now, surrounded by the living archive of their love and commitment on display. 

Jesse has lived with Hanzo for a glorious three years, but the type of cohesion Ana and Reinhardt have requires a lot more time. So right now, he and Hanzo just have to settle for their fuck ton of plants. 

Fathers to a giant plant family is certainly a nice way to live, too.

Putting aside thoughts of his needing to plant his pothos propagations, Jesse realizes he was right: Reinhardt is in the craft room, his huge body hunched at a sewing machine. Reams of fabric surround him, as well as coils of thin metal and spools of thread in every color. A pile of homemade masks sit in a laundry basket near his set-up. 

Although he wears a mask, Jesse can tell Reinhardt's cannula is in, spilling oxygen into his nose.

"Love, we have company," Ana says, taking a sip from one mug.

"In… a… minute…" Reinhardt booms, because he doesn't have any other way to speak. His deft fingers push the swatches under the machine in practiced movements. 

Jesse and Ana give him his minute: the former because it's polite, and the latter only because she knows how important this project is to her partner. All available masks are getting diverted to medical providers and fucking cops before the FDNY sees any. The least Reinhardt can do is spend hours at his desk crafting, and the least Jesse and Ana can do in turn is wait for him to stop when he is ready to.

Ana has taken two more sips before Reinhardt lets out a bellowing laugh and pulls the fabric he was working on away with a snip of his scissors. "There!" He places the mask (which has a pattern with little lions on one side of it) with the others and finally turns to them. He pushes the chair far away from the sewing machine to not disturb the set-up. "Jesse, my boy! How good it is to see you, friend."

On a normal day, Reinhardt would beckon Jesse over and jump up to squeeze Jesse in a tremendous bear hug. But it's not a normal day so even as reckless as he is, Reinhardt has enough sense to stay seated. 

"And you too."

"I see you are in one of my masks! The cacti pattern is one of my favorites. I should make more of it. Is—" 

Jesse sees Reinhardt's lips move but he can't focus on what the man is saying because as he speaks, Ana slinks over to his side. She gives him the mug she had been sipping from, instead of the fresh one just to be contrary. Her now freed hand skirts up his arm and her fingers dance up his shoulder and neck before pulling down Reinhardt's mask, letting it hang around his neck. She's not done with him though, using the opportunity to cart her fingers through Reinhardt's shock white hair. Reinhardt automatically draws Ana closer, hand to her hip, her hip to his side. Both Ana and Reinhardt are always so uncompromisingly affectionate, so absolutely stunningly generous with how much they love one another… and others too. Like Jesse. Jesse used to be someone they could touch. Hug. Pinch ears. Flick ears of. Brush fingertips with, as a mug of tea passes from one person to the other on a lazy afternoon.

(Hands… reaching out to him… a memory: days upon days upon days without contact and then…)

Goosebumps erupt all over Jesse's body. His arms tingle soon thereafter, a deep unnamed need crawling into his muscles. He would claw at the itchiness if he didn't have witnesses, one of whom… is still talking.

Shit.

"Uh," Jesse blurts. "Sorry, lost track for a lick. What're you asking for again?"

Ana's fingers stop playing with Reinhardt's hair for a moment. She offers no other reaction to Jesse's lapse. 

Reinhardt, on the other hand, doesn't miss a beat. "Understandable, considering your very honorable feat today. I look forward to seeing what rich bounty you've found for us today." Then Reinhardt slows his speech, as if that will help Jesse understand his simple question better. "Is the mask holding steady by your standards? Yours was an early attempt, so it might not keep as well as one of my latest." 

Jesse comments on the fit (perfect, of course). Jesse asks about how the bulk sewing is going (well) and they move on to when Jesse should plan on bringing over the first delivery of masks to the folks over at Engine 277 (maybe three days, so they can ensure everyone has at least three masks to cycle through). Ana offers some input (getting in contact with 4H to arrange for sanitizing, if needed), but mostly stands there to appreciate Reinhardt's hair (it's very good hair). They come up with a loose plan as Reinhardt and Ana slowly sip at their tea. 

Their chat meanders after a while, undoubtedly due to the awful tension in Jesse's limbs. 

Maybe sensing that Jesse is tired, Ana plucks the now empty mug from Reinhardt's hands. "Time for a refill, I believe."

"Yes! More of your delicious ambrosia, my dearest," Reinhardt coos (meaning, he says this with a baseline human volume). In a tangle of limbs, Ana ends up with the cups and Reinhardt has pulled Ana in for a delicate kiss, his hand gently cupping her hijab over her ear. 

It's a scene Jesse's seen thousands times before. 

This time, acute discomfort suffocates him. It's only until the elevator doors are closing on him when Jesse can breathe again. He barely remembers the haze of saying goodbye to Reinhardt then, in the kitchen, Ana Venmoing her share of the groceries. Then… Jesse thinks he tried to evade Ana's requests to spill what's going on in his head. Yeah, that's what happened next. She began discrete yet targeted in her prompting, but she was ultimately unyielding. Ana wouldn't let him go until she got something out of him, and it ended up being a promise to check in with Gabe later. (She'll hold Jesse to it.) Jesse tries to remember anything else about the conversation—anything specific (did Bastet creep her way back to bump her little black head against Jesse's ankles, or did he imagine it?)—but it's all a blur. 

His own groceries in hand, Jesse uses his elbow to press the button to his floor.

His arms itch.

—

_three._

"How are the children?"

Jesse pauses in putting away their third of the haul to grunt out a small (if strained) laugh. Despite calling them kids himself, Jesse can only imagine the 4H quintet of twenty-somethings' reaction to being described as such by Genji. "Fine. The boys are finding ways to raise hell for each other virtually and irl, bless them. Yuna is finally allowing me to turn on the shower all by myself, so there's an improvement there. Hana's still the only one with any sense."

"Not used to spending so much time together?" Genji passes Jesse a giant jar of dried beans. (Jesse makes sure their fingers don't touch.) 

"They used to be in the same WOW raid party," Jesse reminds Genji. Forgetting the MEKA stream team's origin story was forgivable: Genji was only introduced to them recently through FaceTime, after he and Zenyatta moved in, but before Jesse volunteered to do grocery runs to minimize contact for everyone without relying on delivery services that are now nearly a week behind on orders. "So I'll say they're rather used to each other."

"But how about time together"—Zenyatta smiles at Jesse from his seat on the couch from the living room half of the main room. There's humor in his honeyed chai tone as he repeats Jesse's phrasing—"irl?"

"That…" Jesse considers 4H's old gig and streaming schedules. "I reckon you got a point there."

"They will come into their own, I am sure," Zenyatta says as he returns to tapping quickly at his phone. A fellow teaching artist had asked their folks for help on how to demand payment after a contractor suddenly cancelled their request, and Zenyatta is running triage on their anxiety levels while advice comes in. He and one other are the only two artists of their collective with any social work training, and so have become de facto resource center operators. There's about six other artists he's also talking with, easing their worries as best he can while they all hope to find a therapist with a sliding scale option for the uninsured. 

Genji puts a bag of potatoes into the pantry. "And the lovebirds?"

Jesse remembers the intimacy of the two, the way they slotted in next to each other. The caress of fingers in hair. "In love."

His response is too curt. Genji looks at him. Maybe he'll make a joke. Maybe he'll ask after Jesse's tone. Maybe Jesse is reading too much into a simple glance. In any case, the scrutiny tears into Jesse. It's too much. 

Jesse slams down a can of… something. He doesn't know. Doesn't check. Now Genji is really staring at him, if he wasn't before. Zenyatta has drawn his attention to Jesse too. 

Jesse needs to get away.

"I need to…" …shower. He wants to be under hot water. Steam casting a dreamy heaviness to his vision. Scalding spray on his scalp. "…email. I mean, I gotta email Mina."

"Your chair?" Genji is flummoxed. He has a right to be. Fuck. "Right now?"

"Yeah… yes." Urgent is relative for a graduate student on fellowship. Every milestone seems immediate and too far away to worry about. So Jesse pulls something out of his ass that is as truthful as it is misleading. "The Ford Foundation's been on my ass about an update to assess how they can best support us fellows right now. Need to ask her… need to ask if we want to move our symposium—the queer of color one?—to online or delay it for next semester. See if Ford has any advice on what's the most useful for graduate students right now." 

Genji crosses his arms and nods along with Jesse, his overgrown green hair flopping around wildly. It's a familiar stance, usually pulled out when Genji is behind turntables and the chorus is so hot he lets it just play out. A familiar stance, albeit one that's a stranger to a kitchen. It might become a stranger to Genji as well, given how all his bookings very, very quickly dried up post-order to shelter-in-place.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'm not hearing why that has to be now."

"Jesse treats his scholarship very seriously, Genji," Zenyatta offers. 

"Still, there's no rush. You said yourself that Penn has slowed down their operations. I'm sure Mina and Ford can wait an hour. Or"—Genji's lithe body jumps from presenting concentration into an accusatory line—"do you attempt to skirt your duties, old man? Hm? Hm? Don't you have anything to say in your defense!" A baguette in his hand becomes a sword as he jabs it into Jesse's shoulder.

Jesse swats the loaf away, which only gets Genji to be more aggressive in his poking. "Old man?" There's only two years between him and Genji. Hell, Genji has taken after his brother, and therefore has more greys than Jesse, which has been made all the more evident by how much of his roots are showing. 

Jesse can't help it: he laughs in the face of Genji's silliness. The tension in his body eases, if only just. "Old man, my ass." 

"I am on good authority that your ass has to be old, if it got my brother's attention."

Offended on Hanzo's behalf, Jesse yanks the baguette from Genji's grip and starts hitting him with it. "He works at a nursing home but he ain't no gerontophile, asshole. Also, he's _older_ than me."

Genji dodges most of Jesse's attacks easily. "That's a mighty big and fancy word to just randomly know… unless you are the beneficiary of such a predilection." Jesse follows him around the kitchen until Genji fucking _vaults_ over the island counter partition to the living room (thankfully not dropping any of the groceries waiting to be sorted through). 

He doesn't make it far before yelping: he runs straight into Zenyatta's cane, which is held out in a mockery of a fencer's hold. Genji dramatically falls over, groaning as he curls up into Zenyatta's lap.

"You are getting crumbs everywhere," Zenyatta points out, which… fair. "Fine for the kitchen, but I guarantee that there will be much discord in this house if any of that bread gets up in these cushions."

"Fine," Jesse says, putting the loaf on the partition. "Truce."

"Truce," Genji mumbles into Zenyatta's leg. "You didn't have to stab me, y'know."

"The quickest drawn sword is often the unexpected one," Zenyatta says mystically as he pinches Genji's side.

"Boo! Do you see this, Jesse?" Genji affects a whine, but his expression is full of fondness. Jesse gets that itchy feeling again. "Do you see how I am mistreated? Everyone thinks Zen is so kind and so patient but—"

Zenyatta catches one of Genji's hands and brings it to his lips. "—you like that I'm not. I know." Kisses his knuckles. 

Genji groans at his boyfriend's cheesiness but indulges Zenyatta. They're sweet: both as ridiculous as they can be thoughtful, even somber. As the pair continue to tease each other, Jesse quietly picks up the baguette and returns to his task. 

He's only stowed a few more items before Genji calls out, "Yo Jesse! We can do that later. Let's take a break for a minute."

"Nah, I got this." The can Jesse had slammed down was of sweet corn. He puts it away. 

"Jesse!"

"Just keep lazing about. I may be old but I can keep puttering on with the rest of—" 

Hand on his bicep.

Jesse gags.

(A memory: the first touch in days as a CO gets him out of his cell. Bile—at the back of his throat with the distinct taste of chicken chow mein that's more empty cellulose filler than protein, covered with a gravy that's about three days gone off.)

Jesse crushes the box of mac and cheese in his hand, raining down little uncooked elbows to the floor. 

"Sorry. I'm so sorry. I know not to surprise y—"

"Hey, hey. It's fine." 

"Jesse…"

"Relax. Ya know I'm a jumpy motherfucker. Just lost control of my strength there. I just need to… uh…"

"Email Mina."

"Yes. That. But let me—"

"No, no give me that broom. I got it. Just—"

"Okay. Okay. I just… Let me know if you need anything. I'll be in the bedroo—er, I mean. The office." 

"Course."

—

_four._

**You:** here is my mandated "checking in with gabe" text because if i know anything its snitches.. ana has got to gone ratted me out  
**Reyes:** You're not wrong.  
**You:** lets get this over with?  
**You:** i went shopping  
**You:** hung out with my neighbors, then g&z  
**You:** shot off some work emails. ate dinner. read some books  
**You:** boring day. like yesterday, and the day ebfore that and the day before that  
**Reyes:** That's all?  
**You:** yeah.  
**Reyes:** Then you don't mind if I call?  
**Reyes:** Well?  
**You:** what do you want me to say man  
**You:** no, i really dont wanna talk right now  
**Reyes:** And why not?  
**You:** i knwo what youre doing.  
**Reyes:** Is it working?  
**You:** you aint my PO anymore. i aint need to report nothing to you no more  
**Reyes:** It's okay if this is affecting you, Jesse. It's shit for everyone.  
**You:** its been along day  
**Reyes:** I know, son.  
**You:** i promise im doing right fine by mysel. maybe im more jumpy than usual but  
**You:** it aint obscene or nothing  
**You:** im tired. and busy. no need for no call or nothing  
**You:** ana just has been locked up in her hovel with rein for too long. shes just looking for trouble  
**Reyes:** I appreciate your promise. I even think you believe it.  
**You:** but you dont  
**Reyes:** Would you?  
**Reyes:** Are you sure you don't want to call?  
**You:** are your other parolees doing ok  
**Reyes:** No.  
**Reyes:** You're not a parolee anymore, either.  
**You:** well fuck  
**You:** if so whyre you nagging me like if i dont squeal youll throw me back into a cage  
**Reyes:** Jesse  
**You:** sorry.  
**You:** shouldnt have said it like that  
**You:** i was joking. i kno you worry..  
**Reyes:** I don't like bringing up ancient history. But I've known you since you were 17. You're 37 now. 20 years it'll be come September since your name first came across my desk. That's longer than your mama had the chance to know you. Certainly longer than the bastard of a man listed on your birth certificate. Hell that's half my adult life. 20 years. I've had a lot of cases assigned to me during that time, and before it too. And I  
**Reyes:** I don't do things for them that I've done for you.  
**You:** i know.  
**Reyes:** So yes. I worry.  
**You:** i know  
**You:** im sorry, i dont kno whyi said that  
**Reyes:** I do.  
**Reyes:** Listen.  
**Reyes:** You don't have to talk to me about what's got you so wound up right now. I suspect I know a lot of it already, so it makes sense that of all people you may not want to confide in your former parole officer.  
**You:** Gabe, I swear i don't see you as my PO  
**Reyes:** It's okay if some part of you will always think of me that way.  
**You:** i aint sorry for how we met  
**Reyes:** You have a lot of good people around you in New York. People who love you and care about all the brilliant shit you think up in that thick head of yours. You did good, building a strong network. You can and should open up to the people around you like that.  
**Reyes:** And maybe I'm selfish for asking this but  
**You:** ?  
**Reyes:** Jaybird, you'll let me know if it gets really bad, right?  
**Reyes:** You'll let me know?  
**You:** really im doing alright, boss  
**Reyes:** That's not what I'm asking.  
**You:** yes. Yees ill let you kno. Of Course  
**Reyes:** I'm going to have to settle with that for now, I guess.  
**Reyes:** I have to check in with a number of folks. My actual cases. I will be here if you need me, but I might not respond to urgent messages/questions. Clear?  
**You:** crystal  
**You:** pls stay safe  
**Reyes:** You too. Talk soon.

—

_five._

Jesse has had a lot of schooling. Dropped out in the eighth grade but did a GED course and passed the test by when most folks his age were still stuck in tenth grade algebra. Got his bachelor's in prison, and then—after being told by Gabe how solid a head he had on his shoulders—he went ahead and did a master's in literature. Took a while, for accounting of his working like a dog during it to not accrue too much debt, even with Gabe helping him out here and again. When he did finish, he found it easier than expected. He loved it more than he expected. He thought fuck it; let's go for broke. He applied for five doctoral programs, only in the top fifteen thinking that might cut his stupid dream off at the feet—but then got into two. Now four years into his program, and he's already thinking about his post-doctoral fellowship opportunities, particularly those with incorporated career training. 

That, in conclusion, is the making of a highly educated man.

And during all that time, he'd done a lot of book reading. He has a large vocabulary locked up in his head, which he meeks out in measured doses as not to create too deep a code switch. He's also had far more experience than the average person on how to describe a handsome person; it comes with the territory, when one's focusing their dissertation on queer of color lit on the fugitive erotics of carceral states, both literal and figurative. There's a lot of longing when a person feels locked up or about to be locked up, as Jesse knows all too well from his own past and (ironically) his present. So he's spent countless hours pouring over the lyrical proclamations on handsomeness in all its multiplicity and variation. He can recite lines from a dozen novels and even more poems… He can gab for hours on theoretical discourses of queer desire, of of-color beauty… 

He can't describe Hanzo. Not in the way he deserves, because even in the distortion of a webcam, Hanzo is speechlessly gorgeous. It's why Jesse only has the little desk lamp on, with the shades closed: he wants to bathe in the light of Hanzo's image, as digitally ephemeral as it is. Sure, Jesse can screenshot their Zoom chat, and then spend hours alone in his second-bedroom-turned-office trying to decipher the poetry of his attraction to Hanzo. 

But Hanzo's beauty's already there, exposed in the physicality of every one of his features.

It's in his high cheekbones— 

And the wide bridge of his nose, pierced with a jet of silver— 

His eyes—serious and attentive— 

Clever forked eyebrows— 

And how the salt-and-pepper five-o'clock shadow on his cheeks fade into the black of his goatee— 

His undercut— 

And his lower lip—so plump it hangs down into a perpetually kissable pout— 

The heft of his adam's apple, and how even now Jesse can remember its taut bulge when he closes his mouth around it in a tight O— 

Earrings, sparkling on his ear.

Then—the dorky smile that brightens Hanzo's face as Jesse blurts out, "I fucking love you, y'know?"

Hanzo's laugh—fuck. Just… _fuck_. Jesse doesn't really believe in anything, but if there's anything proof of the divine, it's that the universe gave Jesse the opportunity to hear that laugh on a regular basis.

"Sorry for interrupting, sweetheart. I swear… I swear I was paying attention. Angela… you said Angela's retraining the night crew?" Hanzo's nursing home has been having trouble with their staff using their PPE correctly. There hasn't been any positive cases—yet—but they are taking every precaution. Jesse saw Hanzo's Instagram post yesterday, taken at the end of his shift: he had on a mask, a plastic face shield, gloves, and a full paper body cover over his scrubs, and Hanzo doesn't even interact directly with residents as part of the environmental cleaning crew. 

It had terrified Jesse as much as it relieved him to see Hanzo so protected and so at risk.

"That was all I meant to say."

"Good to hear." Jesse tries to think of something else to ask Hanzo about, but everything coming to mind are things they've already covered: how's Angela's house? (Lovely.) Is it nice to be only a ten minute drive from his work instead of an hour and twenty minutes by two trains and a bus? (Yes, but it takes a doctor's salary to live in the neighborhood, and he also likes Gowanus; it's close enough to Sunset Park to regularly visit some of his old haunts growing up.) Did he talk to Amélie lately? (Hanzo checks in with his sponsor daily, and the two are even helping their group's chairperson move their AA meetings online.) Is he watching anything on Netflix? (Unfortunately, he's usually too tired at the end of his shift to pay much attention to shows. He is taking recommendations, if Jesse had any.) 

Distracted as he is, Jesse nearly misses Hanzo speaking up. 

"I love you too," Hanzo whispers so softly it's a wonder the mic picked him up.

Jesse slumps back in his chair, wounded by the force of such a statement striking his heart. He can't look at his laptop anymore. "Yeah?" There's honest tears in his eyes. He blinks rapidly, refusing to let a single drop fall.

"I do." 

So much schooling, and Jesse can never find his tongue when confronted by the naked truth of Hanzo's affection for him. 

"I miss you," Jesse chokes out. It's easier to admit things to the ceiling than to the screen. "I know you staying at Angela's is the safest thing for everyone, especially the residents. But—" 

"I know. I miss our plants."

Jesse laughs wetly. "Call before your post-shift nap sometime. I'll give you the nickel tour."

"Don't be jealous, Jesse. I miss you, too."

"That's nice. …I miss your arms."

"Hm. You always did admire my muscles," Hanzo tries to joke but the tone is somehow off. He sucks at trying to make moments light, though, which is usually enough to cheer Jesse up for how awkward he is. Now, it's not enough. 

"That ain't it." They're good arms—beautiful lovely godly arms. But… "I miss ya holding me." Hanzo's hugs are flicks of sunshine on earth. Jesse loves the way Hanzo makes sure Jesse sees his hands coming for him. And how there is always a tickle touch up Jesse's sides before the embrace. A warm weight like none other; Hanzo pressing his arms around Jesse, that is. 

"Ah." 

They sigh. 

It's always comfortable sitting in silence with Hanzo. They both appreciate what a rare gift that is when so few others will give them the space to feel—to process—to calm down and reflect. Hanzo likes to say that he realized how deeply he could love Jesse upon learning how well Jesse could keep his damn mouth shut. This stunning epiphany came after their third work out session together. The first two hadn't gone bad, per se, but they'd included a lot of checking in about pacing and focus areas (Hanzo aimed for thick, tight muscle, while Jesse just wanted to be strong). But by their third session… they had their flow. They called out reps; they asked for spots and happily obliged; they said when they needed a rest—but otherwise, they didn't chitchat. They just worked out. 

They weren't even really together at that point: just an occasional fuck buddy of a Grindr match. But that silence, of all things, wooed Hanzo. 

They sit in that silence again. It is familiar even when everything else in the world is not, because Hanzo's steady in-out-in-out-inhales are a pattern as known so intrinsically to Jesse as his own heartbeat. Jesse hears how shakey his own breath is in comparison. Takes the time to match Hanzo's. 

Or—almost matches it, until Hanzo's breathing changes. Quickens.

Jesse finally drops his gaze back to the screen. "What's up?"

"I miss—" Hanzo starts. Stops. Hanzo is flustered and… is that a blush? Oh… oh fuck—"No. Sorry. This isn't the time."

"Oh, I reckon it might be," Jesse all but growls, his emotions teetering violently with his sudden need to hear the end of Hanzo's sentence. (Distantly, he knows he shouldn't be this volatile. But it's okay… he's not hurting anyone, it's okay, he's…) "What're you missing?"

Jesse's hunger—his desperation—must embolden Hanzo, because Hanzo's perfect fucking mouth on his perfect fucking face smirks. "Your cock, Jesse. Your cock in my hand and mine, fucking into you."

Jesse's skin _boils_. 

"Them's fighting words," Jesse whines. He ain't too proud to whine. 

"I always follow through with my challenges, if you are interested."

Jesse listens to the door. Genji and Zenyatta are somewhere in the apartment, loudly listening to some action flick. It'd be good enough cover, if Jesse keeps quiet and— 

(He misses Hanzo's careful touch so, so much.) 

"Care to walk me through it?" Jesse asks, hoping as he's rarely hoped for anything.

To Hanzo's credit, he does consider the request for a long moment before answering: "I am not sure that would be wise right—" 

"Please," Jesse moans, too loud and far, far too urgent. "I need this, Hanzo."

Jesse cannot read Hanzo's expression except for the line of hesitation that furrows his brows. He's thinking but Jesse needs him to be speaking. But Jesse doesn't beg anymore. He wants this like he ain't want anything else, but he doesn't want to feel like he's forcing Hanzo's hand, either. 

Eventually, Hanzo gives in. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Yes." 

"Then… let me see you."

It's quick work for Jesse to stand and get a couple squirts of hand lotion he's been keeping on his desk because of all the handwashing. Apparently, it'll have another use after today.

Jesse moves as far back as he can go, tethered to the laptop by his headphones as he is. At the same time, Hanzo—in bed and already topless—only needs to kick off his joggers and move the laptop from his lap to between his legs. Again, Hanzo's beauty strikes Jesse nonverbal. 

(It's there, in the trail of five beauty marks trailing up his thigh to his taint—)

"Say no if there's anything you don't like," Hanzo reminds him, because he always reminds Jesse, even for the most vanilla of vanilla fucks. "You always have the colors."

(His abs—) 

Jesse nods. Slides his dick and balls over his jeans. Slathers on the lotion.

(The jut of his uncut cock—) 

"We can't go deep. I can't give you proper aftercare, not the way you deserve. Please help me take care of you."

(The sweeping dragon tattoo across his arm and shoulder—) 

Jesse nods.

(His tits—) 

"I need to hear you."

(And… it's in just how much he loves Jesse.)

"Yes. Please, Hanzo—" 

"Your shirt, if you will."

It's gone.

"Hold yourself."

Jesse circles the base of his cock and squeezes just so. Jesse ain't hard, not yet, but he can be. 

Will be. 

"I can't—Jesse, get into the frame. "

It takes a moment to get into a proper position. Slouching, Jesse's exposed from head to head. As he judges the success of his stance, Jesse reviews himself in the self cam preview. With only the screen and the little lamp for illumination, Jesse's dark skin is touched by blue, and combined with the shittiness of his webcam, the edges of Jesse's digital double shift into shadows. A disidentification of personhood—him, lost in focus; him, existing only in a narrow stream of light. The body as ambiguous, from the curve of his paunch to the unruly mess on top his head. It's haunting, to see himself so, to the point that Jesse is tempted to turn off the self preview, or at least move the lamp. He doesn't; Hanzo's already humming approval, shifting back, drinking in the sight before him. And Jesse… he just wants to please. Loves to please. Wants to kneel and beg and choke on Hanzo's cock and be taken down and then afterwards—after Hanzo's come and maybe he's come, too—to be held— 

Jesse flinches as the sense-memory of Hanzo's tickle light touch startles him. He clutches his dick too hard. Lets out a groan.

The sense-memory passes, gone as quickly as it appeared. Jesse wants it back. Yearns for it on his scalding skin as the benediction of any reminder of Hanzo's hands on him. Jesse tugs at himself harder, shaking and needy. 

"Slow down." Hanzo's voice comes from far away.

(Hush.)

—

_unum._

The pull-out couch is already made by the time Jesse washes up after his call with Hanzo. He's immensely grateful. As amazing a release it was to have Hanzo talk him through edging himself, Hanzo refused to hang up for another thirty-five minutes of guided aftercare and small talk. And even then, Hanzo seemed like he wanted to keep going; only after Jesse swore he wasn't about to secret off into a drop that Hanzo agreed to get off the phone.

Jesse's so ready to pass the fuck out that he doesn't notice Zenyatta until the man lets out a small cough behind him.

Jesse stills for a few heartbeats, already halfway under the covers. Luckily, he's so loose from the call his body releases its tension quickly. He turns to his friend, who is at the sink to refill his water bottle.

"I intended not to startle you, but I failed in doing so in the attempt to get your attention," Zenyatta says amiably, keeping his bottle to the faucet. 

"Nah, you're fine. I'm just…" Jesse doesn't bother finishing his sentence. Just gets himself situated for sleep.

"I will be done shortly."

There aren't any windows in the main room, so it's pitch black excepting a small night light placed so nobody busts their ass getting from the bedroom to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Again, shapes are ambiguous in the stretch of such a small source of illumination. Jesse follows the edges of the ceiling, of shelves, of the TV, of the front door… as he listens to Zenyatta finish up. Then—the soft patter of his feet and cane. 

Zenyatta needs to walk behind the couch to access the hall to the bedroom, and on his way, he stops to peek over the back cushion.

"Goodnight, Jesse."

"Night, Zen."

Zenyatta makes to leave but then just… doesn't. Zenyatta's bald head and large circular glasses give him the distinct look of an owl in the darkness. And the thing is… with just about anyone else, Jesse's hackles would be rising with someone hovering over him. But there's something about Zenyatta that Jesse trusts. Jesse trusts in Zenyatta's tenderhearted commitment to his art, and in his stubborn devotion to his principles of justice, and in his wit just biting enough that it keeps him interesting without souring the rest of it. 

Eventually, Zenyatta's hand slowly comes up and grips the back cushion; he puts his weight onto it. "I know you have had a long day, and I would hate to add to it. But I do feel compelled to share something. I fear it might upset you, but I do believe it urgent."

"Well…" Jesse gets up onto his elbows. "How can I say no to that? I'm all ears."

Zenyatta's night light lit expression gestures to his hesitation without confirming it. Maybe judging it's too late to back out, Zenyatta powers through. 

"This is not the first time I have been sequestered to a single space for an extended period of time. I have had a lot of time in recovery rooms, sitting with just my post-surgery pain and boredom—so I would consider the world. I have spent much time reflecting on the balance of life: its tranquility and disruptions, its spite and its unbridled joys. For years, my life existed in the precariousness of these extremes, whether it was waiting for a test result or pushing through PT for months hoping to achieve another eighth of an inch of flexibility at the end of it. I thought I knew how to handle chaos. But… I do not know what I would have done without you these past few weeks."

Of all the things Zenyatta could've ended this speech, Jesse wasn't expecting that. "Between you and Genji…" Jesse gulps, not sure what to say in response to the earnestness in Zenyatta's voice. "Y'all would have figured something out." 

"I appreciate your confidence, but I am not as sure. In a week and a half, we lost nearly every one of our financial opportunities. Even with what unemployment offers for independent workers, my copay alone would eat up most of our checks combined. We likely would have stayed in our apartment despite knowing how recklessly our roommates planned on disobeying the shelter-in-place order. We would have stayed and then…" Zenyatta doesn't need to finish his sentence, and Jesse wouldn't want to hear it anyway. To speak the truth of it out loud is to acknowledge the reality of the danger they were in: one of their roommates started coughing five weeks after Zenyatta and Genji left; he's now on a ventilator. 

"Anyone would do the same in my position."

"Perhaps, but you certainly did not have to give up your bed. Even if it is in deference to my joints, you did not have to offer." 

Jesse sinks deeper into the couch as if the cushions would soften the impact of Zenyatta's sincerity. "It's not that big a deal."

"It really is."

"Hey now! It ain't like it's that much of a sacrifice to me. This couch is more comfortable than all the places I'd slept in for damn near half my life." The darkness of the night swallows Jesse's confession. 

"Oh Jesse," Zenyatta says with an edge of finality. "The fact that you think I would find that comforting is precisely why I appreciate you and your astounding, revolutionary generosity." 

Of all things, it's this acknowledgment that breaks Jesse.

"Well, _fuck_ me." The sound barely escapes his clenched teeth. They are clenched so hard his cheeks shake with the effort. 

His cheeks are wet. He's crying. 

Big sloppy messy tears. They pool on either side of his nose and in the cups of his ears. 

Jesse has had enough emotional outbursts in his thirty-seven years to not outright convulse with the strength of his being overcome—but it's a close thing. Because for a moment, Jesse isn't thirty-seven and laying on a street-side thrifted couch in a tiny apartment in Brooklyn. Instead he— 

—is twelve and handed a gun by a white lady with a promise of a family… of somewhere he can finally belong. He…

—sits in eighth grade English, spiraling something awful with the knowledge that he had shot a man the night before. Maybe killed him. The teacher touches his shoulder, thinking he's asleep, and Jesse runs out the room. (Jesse never goes back to that class—or any other high school class, in fact.) He…

—has got a confirmed body count of two, but what he gets locked up in juvie for is a dime bag. The arresting officer surprises him from behind and smashes his face into a brick wall. He…

—doesn't understand how over the years his former PO went from being _Mister Reyes_ in his head to just _Gabe_. Gabe tells Jesse he ain't quite sure either: never thought of himself as the kind of man who screams his way into a former parolee's interrogation as it hits its… nineteenth? hour. Jesse…

—isn't sure he would have gone through with the state's deal of his snitching in exchange for immunity beyond five years locked up on a misdemeanor, if not for Gabe. ( _Deadlock doesn't need you like I do._ ) He…

—is literally stabbed in the back by a loyalist rounded up in the same raid, who heard Jesse was the rat that rattled the foundations of the great Calamity Ashe's empire. He…

—spends fifty-six days in solitary, supposedly for his own protection. He is so under- and overstimulated by his grueling box of a cell that when someone touches him, he barfs on them. After the third or fourth time, no one touches him; the COs resort to prodding his biceps with batons to make him walk during his hour of activity, or when Gabe visits. Jesse…

—transfers to another prison and is placed into gen pop again, but never stops feeling itchy. Constantly itchy. Yearning and desperate. Alone. He… 

—is so alone. He's so fucking alone, and nobody will touch him… 

(…except…) 

"—not going to touch you but I am here for you."

(…except that isn't quite true, is it?) 

"I apologize with all my heart."

(Jesse isn't twelve or incarcerated or just maybe killed a man or just had his nose broken by a cop.)

"You are one of the strongest people I have ever met. One of the most observant and compassionate, too."

(Jesse isn't unclear about whether snitching would be a good idea, and he isn't being jumped as retribution for the choice he did make, and he isn't alone.)

"—should have known it would be too much. I should not have—" 

(Jesse is…)

Jesse is thirty-seven and laying on a street-side thrifted couch in a tiny apartment in Brooklyn. Zenyatta sits perched on the edge of the armrest, and Genji has found his way over too—probably woken up by Jesse's sobbing. He doesn't say anything, only crouches down near Jesse's head, crying as Zenyatta whispers his apologies, regrets, and affirmations in determined but measured succession. The pace follows the same lulling rhythm of Zenyatta's morning PT routine that he's lately converted into directed yoga sessions with Genji and Jesse. It feels like forever ago that Jesse twisted his body according to Zenyatta's careful instructions; but it was probably closer to fifteen hours than an eternity. And after that, Jesse had a full day. He (had not just been handed his first gun and did not have to make an impossible choice; he only…) checked in with 4H and 6B about their grocery lists; read; dicked around on the internet; read some more; had lunch; went shopping; dropped off his buys; talked to a bunch of people who he cares for and who care for him. And Jesse kept himself together throughout it all. 

…Or he had thought. But maybe what _together_ looks like is a bit relative right now. He hadn't cried, but as Jesse traces back the day with Zenyatta's hypnotically calm voice washing over him, Jesse can finally see… himself, as 4H and 6B and Zenyatta and Genji and Gabe and Hanzo saw him. Sensitive. Withdrawn and unwilling to be touched. Tense. Hypervigilant of every movement of their hands and their eyes on him. And—most damning of all—insisting he was alright.

No one is alright.

No one is fine.

It's normal to not be alright in the face of COVID-19. 

Jesse is not alright.

But.

But he is not where he once was. He has a family (made up of a grumpy PO, a sly ex-EMT, and a sunny seamster, but a family nonetheless). He has friends and the love of his life, and he is making real progress on an amazing career he would have never thought himself capable of pursuing as a kid. He has his plants.

He has Genji's strong presence and Zenyatta's honeyed chai voice whispering sweet somethings for… Jesse doesn't know how long. Long.

Jesse is not alright, but he ain't alone. Not no more. 

Jesse carefully brings a hand up to where Zenyatta is clutching the couch, and Zenyatta's monologue finally stops in response to Jesse's action. Bracing himself and closely following his own movements, Jesse slides his hand into Zenyatta's. Palm to palm. Skin burning with the sensation of another, but Jesse doesn't fight the churning of his stomach. He lets the reality of touch humble him. Transform him. Equally leech him and give life to him. Encouraged, Jesse pulls Genji to him by his neck until their foreheads touch. It's an awkward angle, but the touch—it's good. The touch is good. 

There will be time for apologies and regrets and confessions and realizations and accommodations and for Jesse to blow his nose.

For now, they clutch at one another in the dead of night, whispering words of love with only a night light for illumination.  


**Author's Note:**

> first, i want to stress how tiny the apartments included here are, even if they have two bedrooms and a living room. i know what the housing situation is like in brooklyn, particularly in and around gowanus. ana and rein's apartment is rent stabilized, the MEKA team has five contributors to the rent, and hanzo and jesse decided to blow a lot of their budget to make sure jesse has an office. they agreed it was the best choice considering that they hated doing the long distance relationship during jesse's first year, so this seemed like the better option than having him stay full time at penn. it meant arranging jesse's whole ass schedule so he would have to travel by bus between cities as few times as possible a week, but he still does make the five-hour round trip by bus often. and yes, it's worth it because (a) hanzo and (b) he gets a fuck ton of reading done.
> 
> second, and on a far more serious note: as someone born and raised in new york city, with family back in the boroughs, it's grim fucking times right now for me and mine. there are bits and pieces of my loved ones' lives snuck into this story, some inclusions more obvious than others if you know me personally. writing this fic has been so incredibly healing, and i hope reading it will do the same for you. please stay safe, everyone. if you need a place to vent, feel free to do so in the comments; you dont need to say anything about the fic.


End file.
